Cats, Part II

For those of you who read my last post, you might be asking why Doug and I (obvious cat lovers), didn't save Carl-Gus-Bob ourselves and bring him into our home. The answer is Quinn. I don't think our "house" cat has received much publicity in this blog. I'm pretty sure that's how he'd prefer it. But here goes.

Quinn came to us as a kitten twelve years ago when Alex was a freshman in high school. Mrs. Nelson, her Spanish teacher, had a brood of tabbies that needed homes. What young high schooler can resist cute kittens? Alex took two. We didn't argue. (It would good for our puppy to have company!) Alex named the little tabbies Quinn and Ollie. We all quickly fell in love, as any normal human would. Unfortunately, Ollie became a quick victim of his curious nature after crawling into Doug's truck. Needless to say, he didn't live the nine lives he was meant to live. Strangely, Quinn had also crawled into Doug's truck, but somehow survived. (We're not sure if Ollie was actually pushed by his brother. Quinn does does carry a certain "Scar" swagger.)

Quinn has outlived his brother and two other Kramer dogs. Maybe even some hamsters along the way. We're thinking he's got 99 lives. Not only is Quinn a survivor, he's a beast. We've seen him tell other feral cats to "take a hike" with his mean-cat growl. I suspect he's had to give the same scolding to skunks, raccoons and opossums. We don't even see coyotes around here. A friend of mine told me we should be careful that the eagles don't get him. I'm not sure an eagle to take the twenty-pounder. He's our little lion who doesn't hesitate to take severe measures when it comes to mice, birds and ground squirrels. Evidence shows up at our front door. Despite spending an abundance of time outside, he never shows any evidence of getting into a fight. His coat is smooth, his face, flawless. We call him a house cat. He looks like a house cat. But he's very selective about his time inside – usually only wanting inside for on occasional cheek-scratching or potato chip. (He would never lower himself to eat leftovers like the hoodlums back at the farm, but he'll come running at the crackle of a chip bag.)

Needless to say, Quinn is a one-cat show. We didn't even consider introducing him to Carl-Gus-Bob. Quinn might've broken his spirit, or convinced him to take a ride in Doug's truck. But no matter his sadistic, killer instincts, we love the fat, little furball. He doles out his measured affection to both of us, per his schedule, which of course warms our hearts and makes us laugh. Here's to Quinn and another 99 lives.

The Cat Whisperer

My husband runs a cat house. 

Feral cats come from far and wide to take shelter in Doug's machine shed at the old home place. We don't mind. Unlike most people, we admit to liking cats. We find them funny. We appreciate their killer instincts when it comes to rats and snakes. And while I adore dogs, we've had some tough luck in the last couple of years. It's the type of tough luck that rips your heart out and vow never to get another dog.

So our attention has turned to cats. (Empty nest syndrome? Maybe.)

Anyway, we just completed our first formal adoption. 

In July, Doug came across a small litter of kittens in the shed. One particular kitten, the scrawniest of them, had a certain intrepid sense about him. Rather than hide from the humans, he'd come jaunting out of the weeds to say, "Well hello there!" The rest of the litter stayed more aloof, only inching out whenever Doug dumped out some cat food he lovingly purchased (and still purchases) at the feed store.  As you'd guess, this seemed to solidify our new friendship with scrawny cat. But Doug gave me very specific warning. "Don't you go picking it up. We want them all to stay wild."

I nodded my head. But wondered how I long I could hold out. This kitten was so freaking cute! But I obliged. A week later I learned that someone whom I live with was being a hypocrite. He had done the deed. Doug had picked him up. And he named him. Bob, the Cat.

Bob became increasingly curious as harvest began. He had a keen interest in learning all about the workings of the combine. And apparently, Doug's machinery had some real nice places to nap. Well, you could see where this story might end.

Bob's future was beginning to look precarious. So, we made a simple plea to my parents–– always the bleeding hearts when it comes to saving an animal. Suffice to say, it didn't take any arm-twisting before Mom said, "Okay. Bring him over Sunday." 

After some critical analysis, my parents decided to give Bob a new home and a new identity. Bob became Carl and gained two sisters: June (the dog) and May (the other cat). Mom had argued to name the kitty Gus to stay with the calendar theme (Augustus), but my father is the master of naming pets. So, Carl it was.  (The kids call him Carl-Gus-Bob, which also has a nice ring.)

Carl now lives a life of luxury, no longer having to fight off skunks or other animals for food. He doesn't even need to fight off June or May, because, honestly, they haven't quite taken a liking to the little devil just yet. (Don't worry, he doesn't even recognize this fact.) So, what's the moral of this story? I'm not sure. Except it's a happy ending for an adorable kitten whose future was endangered.

And if the mood happens to strike, and you find yourself wanting to make prey out of yarn, and tell stories of the cute things your new cat did like crawl into a basket, you now know who to call.

Carl Gus Bob!